


Throughout All of Your Poorest Decisions

by lady_flash



Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Boys In Love, Canon Compliant, Cricket, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Non-Explicit Sex, and self hatred, but historical accuracy is rly hard, but percy is around so it's ok, fuck richard peele, i don't know how much cricket was a thing in this era, mentions of child abuse, no not like that monty, references to underrage sex, some homophobia, some mentions of sex, some violence, there will be some angst, tiny bit of racism, tiny bit of underrage drinking if that bothers you, we truly do hate richard peele
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:54:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27920062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_flash/pseuds/lady_flash
Summary: "His hair looks even more slick than usual, even blonder than mine and combed backwards with a slight quiff on the top of his head. I hate his hair. Truly I do. I also desperately want to rake my fingers through it while my tongue is in his mouth, and for the life of me, I don’t know why. Being a thirteen-year-old boy is by far the worst thing to ever happen to me. Being a thirteen-year-old boy and desperately fancying Richard Peele is just plain unfair."The fic literally no one asked for... a deep dive into Monty's relationship with Richard Peele.
Relationships: Henry "Monty" Montague/Percy Newton, Henry "Monty" Montague/Richard Peele (SORRY)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 33





	1. Merry Bloody Christmas to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Tagged as Mature as it will get more adult in the second and third parts but the first part I would say is fine for Teens and up!
> 
> Also please note that I didn't really try to write 13-year-old Monty any differently than adult Monty because... well because it was hard and I feel like he had to grow up fairly quickly... :-/

**Cheshire, December 1721**

I often wonder if my father’s annual Christmas parties will eventually become more enjoyable when I am old enough to drink (Not that Percy and I haven’t been able to steal the occasional swig of wine when sneaking away at mind-numbingly boring church services.) Unfortunately, my father and Sinclair are both an eagle-eyed presence at this particular venue, so I’ll be sticking to orange juice on this occasion.

As a result, I’m forced to grin and bear these ghastly gatherings while being sober as a judge. My mother drags me around from tiresome Lord to tedious Lady, elbowing me gently until I put on my best charming smile and give them half-hearted season’s greetings. Felicity, completely unforgivably, has successfully feigned illness this year and is currently hidden away in her bedroom, presumably reading one of her dull little books and looking exceptionally pleased with herself. Needless to say, I have sworn my revenge and have already concocted several schemes in my mind during the first hour of this dreadful party alone.

I feel my cheeks start to ache slightly as I fake smile and politely chuckle my way through Lady Darville’s anecdote about her carriage getting stuck in the snow. I catch Percy’s eye across the room and raise my eyebrows slightly. He’s stood with a couple of the lads from school and looks as bored as I am. He quickly glances around to check no one is looking, then mimes hanging himself with a noose (complete with rolled-back eyes and tongue poking out - ever the amateur thespian.) I snort loudly before I can help myself and my mother affords me a sharp glare. 

“Pardon me, Mother,” I exclaim, trying to look innocent. “Lady Darville can really spin a yarn and it rather took me by surprise! I think I had better go catch up with my school chums before I cause myself some serious damage from laughing too hard…” I manage an adorable wink to Darville (which hopefully helps to counteract how incredibly facetious I’m being) and a squeeze of my mother’s hand before managing to get away from the conversation. I head over to Percy and the other lads while ignoring the metaphorical daggers my mother is firing at the back of my head.

As I approach them, Percy beams at me. I grin back, almost involuntarily. “Finally! I thought you’d be doing the rounds all night.”  
  
“Thankfully not,” I reply. “Although really, it’s not like there’s anything else terribly exciting to do at these parties.”

Bernard Garrick, a rotund young fellow, even shorter than me, scoffs. “We _tried_ to sneak into the kitchens to get to the desserts before they were brought out —”

“A thrilling escapade,” I interrupt. He ignores me.

“But Richard _sodding_ Peele caught us and threatened to tell your man. What’s his name... Sinclair?” He rolls his eyes. “Why are the Peeles even invited? They seem to exist purely to spoil our fun.”

“He’s a leech.” Boone Griffith ( _taller than me, sportier than me, cleverer than me— just plain rude of him, really. Thank god I’m far more handsome_ ) cuts in. “A fun leech. And have you seen what he’s _wearing_? It’s Christmas for heaven’s sake. We’re not at a bloody funeral.”

“I didn’t realise he was here.” I sip my orange juice, looking around the room and making my best attempt to look casual before I notice Percy is narrowing his eyes at me. “What?”

“Come play Billiards with us, Monty,” Percy says, his enthusiasm somewhat forced. “The lads brought some cash… we can make it interesting.” He looks at me pleadingly, but my eye has already caught on Richard who is standing by the ridiculously enormous Christmas tree, nudging some of the gifts underneath it with his foot.

His hair looks even more slick than usual, even blonder than mine and combed backwards with a slight quiff on the top of his head. I hate his hair. Truly I do. I also desperately want to rake my fingers through it while my tongue is in his mouth, and for the life of me, I don’t know why. Being a thirteen-year-old boy is by far the worst thing to ever happen to me. Being a thirteen-year-old boy and desperately fancying _Richard Peele_ is just plain unfair.

He glances over at me and notices I’m staring, I immediately feel myself turn beetroot red and he smirks slightly. I quickly look away. Damnation, this is embarrassing. I give it a moment before looking back and I notice he’s on his way out of the door, heading into the halls that lead out to our main conservatory. I stare after him for a few seconds before I feel someone kick my shin, and realise Percy has been trying to get my attention.

“Ouch!” I try to kick him back but he has far better reflexes than I do and I end up missing by quite a distance, stumbling slightly instead. “What is it??”

“I was talking to you!” Percy rolls his eyes. “Are you joining our game or not?”

“Yes! Of course! I just need to... “ I trail off, motioning to the door and ignoring the confused looks I’m receiving. “I’m going to pop out for some fresh air. Start without me!”

“Monty, you aren’t seriously —” Percy starts to complain, but I’ve already stopped listening.

I take a quick look around to ensure that my parents and Sinclair are distracted by the guests, then drop my drink onto a servant’s tray as they walk past and head in the direction in which Richard left. It takes me a moment to catch up, but I find him sitting on one of the plush velvet seats next to a table in the conservatory. He’s nosing through some of the festive cards the servants have decorated the room with, but he doesn’t seem particularly impressed.

He looks up when he notices me walking over, a smug grin on his face. “Montague! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I narrow my eyes and sit down on the seat next to him, instinctively ruffling my hair with my hand then scowling slightly when I realise I’m doing it. “Surprised to see me at my own party, Peele?”

“At your own party? No. Stalking me down the hall?” He smirks at me. “Well... also, no.”

I scoff, trying to look as nonplussed as possible. “Hardly stalking. More… trying to ensure you’re not getting into any trouble.”

“Trouble? I think that’s more your speciality, Montague.” He leans back, kicking his feet up on the table in front of us and I roll my eyes.  
  
“Ah yes,” I reply, stretching my facetious muscles once again. “You’re far more interested in… threatening to turn my friends over to my butler for sneaking a slice of cake. A truly heinous crime, we can both agree.”

“I was doing them a favour. I think if Garrick has one more slice of cake, he may spontaneously combust.” I squint my eyes and he tilts his head at me. “Come on... You can laugh.”

“Say something funny and I just may,” I shoot back.

He doesn’t respond to that but keeps his gaze on me, his eyes flickering across my face, and I can feel my cheeks once again starting to warm. I clear my throat and try not to lose my composure, even as he moves his legs off of the table and leans a little closer to me.

“Why did you follow me out here, Montague? It’s your family’s party. You should be —”

“Mingling?” I interrupt. “I am very much all mingled out. If I have to speak to one more of my mother’s tiresome friends about their summer tours, I may well throw myself into the fire.”

He smirks at me. That bloody irritating smirk that sends an even more irritating shiver down my spine. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Didn’t I?” I stumble out as I realise his gaze has dropped to my mouth.

“Your lips,” he whispers. I swallow a little too hard and he shuffles over, so the gap between us is barely a couple of inches. “They’re like a girl’s lips.”

I force out a small laugh, but I don’t move away. “Was that a compliment or an insult?”

He doesn’t answer, moving in and pressing his lips to mine and I close my eyes. 

Zounds. This is my first kiss. And it’s with a _lad_. Is this… okay? I’ve definitely wanted to do this for a while. And it certainly feels okay. It feels… nice, even. He puts one hand in my hair but the kiss remains surprisingly gentle. I only manage to lean a little further into it before a door slamming down the hall makes us pull apart suddenly.

I immediately shuffle away to the other end of my seat, wiping my mouth. Christ, I didn’t even think to see if there was anyone watching us, and with my father only a couple of rooms away this could have been a potentially fatal mistake. I anxiously look up but thankfully I am only greeted with the sight of one of my father’s poker buddies drunkenly staggering his way back to the party from one of the restrooms. I don’t think he can even see two inches in front of him, let alone to where we are seated.

I look over at Richard and he’s staring down at his fingernails, having moved back to his original position on the seat. The slight flush in his cheeks is the only remaining sign that anything happened at all. I hesitate, then offer him a small sideways smile, flashing one of my famous Montague dimples.  
  
“Well... that was…” I don’t get to finish before he stands up suddenly, stepping over where I’m seated without even a glance in my direction. I frown and sit back. “What’s the hurry, darl—”

 _“Don’t_ —” he cuts in quickly and I flinch. “Don’t…” He takes a deep breath, composing himself then rolling his eyes. “I should get back to the party. My mother will be looking for me.”

I stare back at him, my little shit of a brain suddenly completely unable to form an appropriate response, and he scowls at me, before shaking his head and walking away down the hall.

I sit in silence for a few minutes, my fingers pressed to my mouth, and I think about the slightly acidic feeling that has suddenly made itself present in the pit of my stomach. Shouldn’t a first kiss be a momentous, happy occasion? Are these butterflies? They don’t feel terribly fluttery. Maybe all the romantic stories are truly misleading and this is what feels like for everyone. Like regret. And a dash of fear.

I look up with a start when I realise there are footsteps approaching and sink back into my chair with relief when I see Percy walking towards me, holding his hands behind his back with a rather devilish smile on his face. His face falls slightly when he notices my expression.

“Monty? Are you well?” He stops in front of me and frowns. “You look quite pale.”

I sit up, trying to shake it off. “What? No! I’m fine.” I try and look behind him. “What are you hiding, Perce? It bloody better be wine, this party has been a veritable disappointment.”

“Ah…” He motions for me to shuffle up and I do, he drops down in the seat next to me and pulls two plates from his behind his back, both containing a ridiculously large slab of decadent-looking chocolate cake and a small cake fork. “Next best thing?”

“You rascals finally managed to get into the kitchen?” I shake my head, taking a plate from him and poking at it with the fork, willing my stomach to settle, as it looks rather delicious. “I should have you hung.”

“Actually, they just served dessert while you were gone.” He grins and starts tucking into his own, watching me. “Are you sure you’re well? Did you find Richard?”

I flinch slightly and he raises his eyebrows. “I wasn’t looking for Richard! I came out for fresh air, remember?”

“Ah yes and the conservatory is a good place to find it.” I don’t respond and he sighs. “I must say I will never understand this one, Monty. You’re lucky I’m your best mate and will support you throughout all of your poorest decisions.”

I look at him, chocolate shamelessly smeared across his chin, and can’t help but smile.

“I will make you live to regret saying that. You know that, don’t you?”

  
  


****************

  
  


For something that barely lasted all of twenty seconds, that stolen kiss at the Christmas party somehow managed to change everything. 

A week later, Percy and I head into town on Boxing Day with the intention of playing a few games of billiards, but in reality the excursion is to avoid sitting in tense and awkward silence with our respective families. The bar is crowded, many people seemingly getting the same idea, and abandoning the post-Christmas comedown in favour of getting foxed. 

When we arrive, I manage to get us a free table for a game and quickly shirk off my coat onto it to claim it, while Percy heads to the bar to attempt to charm the barmaid into giving us some surreptitious beers (in the spirit of the season). I grab two cues from the rack on the wall and go to grab a chalk when I hear a familiar voice across the room. My stomach churns unpleasantly when I place it.

In the days immediately following my kiss with Richard, I became resigned to the fact it would likely not be happening again. I kept reliving it of course; how grand it felt to have warm lips against my own, how extremely un-grand it felt when Richard practically dashed away from me with his tail between his legs afterwards. 

It turns out, however, that he did mention it. The following day. To his bloody parents. His description of that night’s events differed from my own memories rather a lot — where I recalled a mutual flirtation and a chaste kiss, he described being crowded into a dark corner and taken advantage of. 

I really did give up my first ever kiss to the biggest prick in England.

The Peeles, unsurprisingly, did not take kindly to this tale and demanded an audience with my father. I was dragged into this meeting, unsure as to why, and there proceeded one of the longest half hours of my life. Watching my father’s face turn ashen with barely concealed rage as he listened to the dreadful tale of his “rampant pervert” of a son. Watching him muster up an apology to Richard’s parents; clenching his teeth and gritting out something along the lines of “lots of boys muck around at this age”. Watching his fist clench and unclench at his side as he politely walked them out of the house.

When he returned, before I could even open my mouth to defend myself, I was greeted with a backhanded slap to the face. It was far from the first time he’d hit me, but it was certainly the hardest hit yet. 

The evidence of it still remains on my face today, a large bruise under my left cheek which has just started to fade. I feel it throb with the memory of my father’s hit when I look over and see Richard and his pals, heading in my direction. He slows slightly when he spots me but doesn’t bother to stop. One of his friends however decides to make more of a scene.

“Well, if it isn’t little Mollie Montague!” His name isn’t important enough to remember, but he’s obnoxiously loud, drawing the attention of a few others in the bar. “What happened to your face? One of your punters get a bit rough?”

Richard smirks slightly at this but says nothing, spotting another table become free and walking over to it, preferring to pretend I don’t exist. 

As well as telling his parents, the little bastard also told practically every lad from our school about me and my little “perversion”. A couple of them dismissed it as a nasty rumour, a few came out with some rather unpleasant comments, but most of them had begun to treat me as if I was a leper, avoiding eye contact with me when they passed. (And damn it, this stung most of all — a face as good as mine deserves to be consistently admired).

I make no attempt to respond to him, which seems to rile the little shit even further. He opens his mouth again to say something else when I hear Percy pipe up behind me. “Everything okay, Monty?”

I feel the warm fuzz of relief in my chest and turn back, taking one of the beers he’s holding and handing him his cue. I shrug, trying my best to look unaffected. “Oh fine, Perce. Just catching up.”

Percy doesn’t seem convinced and glares over at the lad, who is giving him an extremely scathing once over, his face twisted up in a snarl. Thankfully, he keeps his mouth shut when he realises Percy has at least a foot on him in height, and struts back over to where Richard is setting up a game.

Richard slaps him on the back as he walks over, trailed by a couple of other equally forgettable boys, and talks loudly enough for Percy and I to hear. “Don’t worry about Montague and his _boy._ I’m sure he won’t try anything again any time soon, judging by the state of his face.”

I flinch involuntarily and Percy moves to walk over to him but I grab his arm before he can get very far. He feels tense so I give his arm a gentle squeeze and speak quietly to try and get his attention back to me. “Don’t. Just play with me.”

“Monty, he’s an absolu —”

“— oh I am very aware of what he is, Perce. But we came here for a reason and that reason is… “ I motion to the table in front of us, putting on my most wicked smile. “... absolutely destroying you at billiards.”

He snorts. “When have you ever beaten me at billiards, let alone ‘destroyed’ me at it?”

“There’s a first for everything, darling. Come on.” I put my drink down and grab the balls from under the table to start setting up and Percy takes a deep breath, shaking his shoulders off slightly and trying his best not to look over at Richard and his band of merry arseholes.

I take a long swig of my beer and we start our game. I let myself get distracted by the comfortable familiarity of being with Percy and only Percy. No judgemental stares or pitying glances at my scuffs and bruises. He’s always known me inside and out, and if he is bothered by so-called “deviancy”, he doesn’t show it. I’m losing the game terribly of course, but there’s still nothing else I’d rather be doing.

I’m just in the middle of recounting a fantastically entertaining anecdote about getting caught short and pissing in my mother’s prize-winning rose bushes when I glance over Percy’s shoulder and notice Richard heading in our direction towards the bar. I stammer my words slightly which causes Percy to notice, and he spares him a quick sideways look before taking a breath and leaning over the table with his cue to take his turn.

I take a sip of my beer, looking away to avoid the smug look Richard is giving me when I hear a very loud _thwack_ sound and start so dramatically I almost choke. I look back and Richard has disappeared into thin air. 

No wait. He’s on the floor.

It takes me a moment to piece it together. But when I watch Percy give a very theatrical gasp, looking down at him and clasping his hand to his chest, I widen my eyes.

“Jesus!! Richard!” He throws his cue onto the table and crouches down to look at him. “I am _so_ sorry, I didn’t see you there!”

I drop my cue too and rush over, trying my best to keep the smirk off of my face as I see that Richard’s bleeding from his mouth. He’s also managed to rip a hole in his very expensive coat. “You absolute..” Richard spits some blood on the floor and I recoil slightly. “You did that on _purpose_ , you stupid little c—”

“Now, now Richard!” I quickly interrupt, “Are you suggesting Percy would intentionally hit you?! In front of all of these people! Come on, be reasonable fella…”

Richard’s friends have piled over to us now, trying to make sense of the situation, and I look up at Percy, realising he’s seemingly looking for something on the floor. I stand up, confused and he gives a little “a ha!” as he seems to find what he’s looking for, holding it out to Richard.

“Missing something, Peele?” he says. I look down and see a bloodied rather gruesome _tooth_. My heart soars.

Richard growls at him. Percy flings the tooth away as Richard shakily tries to stand up and I grab both of our coats, stuffing them under my arm and then grabbing Percy by the hand. I attempt to drag him away but he insists on downing a few swigs of his drink first before slamming it back down on the table and letting himself be led out of the bar.

When we get outside, we run until we’re a safe distance away, then I stop, stepping in front of him and shoving him. I mean it to be aggressive but I can’t seem to keep the pleased grin off of my face.  
  
He feigns outrage. “What was that for??”

“That! That… display!” I groan slightly, running my hands through my hair.” Christ Perce, there’s going to be hell to pay for this…” 

He shrugs slightly before he responds. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn’t even know he was there.” I roll my eyes. “If he doesn’t know to stay out of the way of a cue during a game of billiards, that’s his own bloody stupid fault.”

I stare at him for a few moments, then burst out laughing.

“You’re a bloody liability, you know that?” He gives me a sheepish grin and I link my arm through his, dragging him down the street and shouting as loud as I can muster. “ _MERRY BLOODY CHRISTMAS TO ME_.”


	2. And So Here We Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty is now 16 and his self-loathing is really starting to peak. Richard reaps the benefits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this chapter gets a little more mature but nothing explicit. References to/implied sex and Monty is 16 so if that bothers you, please skip!
> 
> Anyway I'm sorry for the angst, I swear this fic will have a nice ending.

**Cheshire, July 1723**

I’ve never been terribly excited about birthdays. I’ve always associated them with awkward gatherings at the family home, where my father seems to eye me with even more vicious intent than usual. Birthday parties according to Henri Montague are an inconvenience - children running around his home, making noise and making a mess. For some reason, despite it being  _ my _ day, I was always expected to be the pinnacle of good behaviour on these occasions — one misstep and the beatings were severe. 

My eighth birthday party ended with my locking myself in a closet to hide from my father after I accidentally broke a wine glass in the kitchen. He found me (of course) and ending up pulling me out by my hair. I can still remember seeing a chunk of it clasped in his fist.

On my twelfth birthday, I ended the day face down in Percy’s bed, hiding the mottled bruises covering my face whilst telling him about my most recent detailed plan to run away. He lay next to me and listened politely, although most of my words were probably lost into my pillow. 

It is now my sixteenth birthday and the boy in the bed next to me is not Percy. In fact, I lost Percy a good few hours ago, shortly after I stole a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar at the men’s club. After that, the night became a bit of a blur, although at some point I made it back to my rooms, and Richard Peele tagged along.

We’re both lying on top of the covers without a stitch on, and I suddenly feel uncharacteristically shy, grabbing a cushion which has been knocked onto the floor and using it to cover myself as we both continue to stare at the ceiling in silence.

I jump as Richard sits up suddenly, grabbing his britches from the floor and beginning to pull them on. I go to sit up too and with a wince I realise I should probably afford to move a little more carefully.

“Ah… “ I grimace, managing to sit myself upright and pull the covers over myself. “You off, then?”

He glances at me. “Did you think we were going to cuddle up and go to sleep?”

I roll my eyes but don’t answer, so he turns to face me while pulling on his shirt. “It’s just a shag, Montague. This should be old news to you by now.”

“ _ You _ are old news to me, Richard. Old, incredibly tiresome news in fact.  _ That _ … “ he motions to the bed in between them, “.. that was fairly new news.”

He curls his lip and mumbles under his breath. “Well, you wanted it…”

I narrow my eyes at him slightly. “Did I say I didn’t?”

I did indeed want it. Did I always picture losing my virginity (my…  _ other _ virginity, that is) to Richard sodding Peele? Absolutely not. But after a fair amount of alcohol, it seemed like a logical step. Somehow I always end up going to him when I can’t see straight. Over the last few years, we’ve done more than our fair of drunken snogging, which eventually turned into drunken hands down britches, then inevitably turned into one of us (most frequently, me) on our knees behind the tallest hedge we can find.

Richard is certainly not the only person I’ve ever mucked around with, and I am certainly not under any illusion that I hold anything resembling  _ affection _ for him, but he does always seem to be nearby when I am overcome by the need to… stop thinking. 

Case in point — tonight. Already halfway to drunk, I’d been enjoying a flirtation with a gorgeous redheaded girl that I’d seen around town previously. I pulled out my usual technique; A lingering look across the room, followed by a dimple-deepening smirk before coyly looking away. Inevitably she came over to get a closer look at me, so I offered to buy her a drink. Ordinarily, this would make me roughly fifteen minutes away from being permitted to get a hand up her skirt, however, I was sabotaged by a bullish gent at the bar colliding with me and getting red wine across my newly tailored brocade waistcoat.

“Christ! Watch where you’re bloody...” I trailed off when I realised I had to tilt my head back neck-achingly far to get a glimpse of this man’s face. “Well! You are absolutely huge, aren’t you? Well done indeed.”

He rolled his eyes, not bothering to apologise but grabbed a napkin from the bar and starting to half-heartedly pat me down. He was suddenly joined by a friend, not as intimidatingly tall but at least five years my senior.

“Careful he doesn’t enjoy it too much, Stuart.” The friend piped up and I looked over at him. “I’ve heard this one enjoys a good buggering.”

I immediately felt the blood rush to my face as his giant of a pal immediately dropped the napkin and shoved me away. I scowled at him, looking down at my waistcoat again.

“You at least owe me a new waistcoat, you lumbering oaf.” I spat out. I may have had more to drink than I initially thought.

He gave me a look so violent that it made me flinch before he responded, “Be grateful I didn’t rip you a new arsehole, you little pervert.”

Ouch. Stuart moved to shove me again and I recoiled so dramatically I bumped backwards into the bar. He laughed at me and grabbed his friend by the arm, dragging him away. I took a deep breath to try and compose myself, turning around to see how many people heard that rather unpleasant conversation and came face to face with the gorgeous redhead. It seemed she had heard everything.

“I’m —” she looked me up and down slightly, frowning. “I think my friend is calling me. It was nice to meet you!”

I opened my mouth to say something but before I could, she turned on her heel and walked swiftly away across the room. Just when I was considering locking myself away in my bedroom during the entirety of every birthday for the rest of my rotten, pathetic life, I spotted Richard at the other side of the bar. He was giving me a look that was half amusement and half pity. It made me want to throttle him.

I didn’t throttle him. Instead, I signalled to him to step outside and followed him to the back alley and pinned him against the wall, trying to replace the low buzz of shame running through my veins with something at least slightly more enjoyable.

We kissed for a while, far from tenderly, before he grabbed my arms and turned us around, pinning me against the wall instead and kissed my neck. To my embarrassment, I groaned slightly and fisted my hands in his hair.   
  
“Come back to my rooms,” I managed to get out. He stilled slightly and looked up at me, before I continued, “It’s my birthday. You have to do what I ask.”

“You seem to be under the illusion that I care even a jot about your birthday, Montague.” I glare at him. “What’s in it for me?”

I blink. “If you have to ask that, you really are as big of an idiot as I thought.”

He considers me for a moment before stepping back, making an attempt to fix his hair and coat before looking around to ensure we hadn’t been spotted. Then he grabbed my arm again, shoving me out in front of him. I took the hint and walked ahead of him while he followed me a respectable distance behind.

And so here we are.

Richard stands up from the bed to finish getting dressed and I stare at my hands, suddenly looking at him doesn’t seem worth the energy.

“Don’t look so miserable, Montague. Got your birthday present, didn’t you?” I snap my head around to glare at him and he laughs. “Christ. Lost your sense of humour alongside your virginity, I see.”

I tilt my head at him. “Why exactly are you still here, Peele? I’d hate to be depriving some other poor sod of your delightful company.”

“You found my company pretty delightful just now.” He quickly leans in and shoves his mouth against mine for a kiss before I have time to move away and I scowl. He grabs his shoes and heads to the window. “Go clean yourself up, Montague. You smell awful.”

I scoff. “Try not to fall and break your neck on the way out, sweetheart!”

He gives me a rude hand gesture and shimmies the window open, throwing his shoes out first then climbing out after them. I stare at the window for a moment before slowly sliding down and burying myself under the sheets.

Perhaps my  _ seventeenth _ birthday will be the best yet.

  
  


*********************

**Cheshire, September 1723**

As if I wasn’t a big enough disappointment to my father, his vague attempts to make me into a sportsman when it was clear I wasn’t going to flourish in academia, also led to nothing. I made an attempt at all of the usual pastimes for boys of my position; fencing (the helmets ruined my hair), tennis (weak wrists), even rowing (this was a pleasant one, just for being surrounded by boys with very strong arms… but I was still bloody hopeless). The worst of all however was cricket.

Boring bloody cricket.

Since being thrown out of Eton, however, any chance to get out of the house and thusly, away from my father, I will take with great enthusiasm. And so I find myself lying on the grass in Marbury Park, watching Percy and a few of the lads from school playing cricket.

(I am mostly watching Percy. He is, of course, fantastic at sports. He was destined to be, with those long limbs and his effortless elegance. Also, he’s just bloody good at bloody well everything. I loathe him. Well… I don’t loathe him at all really. Therein lies the problem.)

(I digress.)

I tried to join the game for roughly a half-hour before throwing my bat down dramatically and stomping away to go and lie in the sun instead. I expected Percy to follow me immediately, but as well as being bloody good at everything, he also actually  _ cares about disappointing people _ . And so, much to my annoyance, he finishes the innings before jogging over to me, pulling off his gloves.

He drops down cross-legged on the grass beside me, blowing at the stray strands of his hair which have fallen from his knot, before fruitlessly trying to arrange it into something more presentable.

I allow myself to watch him as he catches his breath. It’s a hot day and so he’s managed to work up a sweat, a bead of which trickles down his neck. I watch it and swallow hard, picturing a scenario where that bead of sweat could be dripping onto my chest while he’s —

“I can’t believe you came all the way out here just to lie on the grass,” he interrupts my train of thought. I manage to quickly look away before he catches me gaping, and I hold my forearm over my face, trying to disguise it as protecting my eyes from the sun when really I’m trying to hide the sudden redness of my cheeks.

“I can’t believe you want to play  _ cricket _ ,” I reply. “It’s as hot as the bloody Sahara out here, darling.”

He laughs, “It’s Cheshire, Monty. I feel you may be being slightly overdramatic.”

I gasp, looking at him and trying to look as scandalised as possible. “ _ Overdramatic? _ Take that back this instant, or I swear to God I will throw myself into the lake.”

“Well, that would certainly cool you down.” He lies back and tilts his head at me, smirking.

“Come play the next innings? Please? I want to play with you. Peele and his hangers-on are getting slowly sozzled and you need to help me take them down…” He bats his eyelashes at me and I scowl slightly, looking back over at the field, where Richard and his friends are using the break in proceedings to take turns swigging from a bottle of gin. One of them motions towards Percy and I and Richard throws his head back, letting go one of his hideously braying laughs.

“Trust me, Perce. If I thought I could help you to humiliate them in any way, I’d be relishing the opportunity.” I sigh, rubbing my face. “Cricket isn’t exactly my sport.”

“Do you _ have _ a sport?” I open my mouth and he interrupts, “I swear, if you say ‘shagging’ I shall aim the ball directly at your head next time I bowl.”

I pause and mime buttoning my mouth closed. He smirks and rolls his eyes, shuffling closer to me. He smells slightly of sweat, on top of his usual scent of cocoa and the rosin from the bow of his fiddle. I don’t think I will ever understand how I have been in Percy’s presence every day for so many years, and only recently found the scent of him so intoxicating. He affectionately nudges my shoulder with his nose and I turn to look at him.   
  
“We can go home.” He seems to be searching my face for something and I frown. “If you want to, I mean.”

“No, Perce! No. We’re staying. You’re enjoying being all sporty and I am enjoying… “ I motion vaguely around us. “Nature.”

Gently, he adds, “And avoiding being in the same house as your father?”

“And that.” He gives me a slightly sad smile then nudges his shoulder with mine before pulling himself up. He pats himself down to rid his clothes of any loose grass and I watch, before he notices and squints at me. “What?”

“I have grass stains on my arse, don’t I?” I snort loudly and pull a handful of grass out of the ground, tossing it at him. He laughs and shakes his head, walking away. “Who’s terribly clever idea was it to make cricket trousers white, anyway…?”

I watch him leave. He does indeed have grass stains on his arse. But it doesn’t make it look any less fantastic. Christ, I wish I could be around him without being reduced to a leering mess.

I could tell him. Couldn’t I? Take him across the park to somewhere we can be alone. Tell him I can’t stop thinking about him. That I’ve never wanted anyone more in my life. He’d be surprised, of course, but… perhaps he’d be keen on the idea?

I scoff out loud. Of course he wouldn’t be. He’s Percy. Fine, beautiful, sweet, funny Percy. And I’m… hiding in a field to avoid my father after being thrown out of the finest school in the country. 

Even if he was into lads (which he isn’t), he deserves better than pathetic little Henry Montague. Who can’t even fence, or row, or box because he flinches at even the slightest attempt at a hit. He deserves the world. All I deserve is...

I look back over as the game takes up again and notice Richard Peele isn’t joining this innings. He’s saying his farewells to his chums and grabbing the remains of his gin, walking through the trees towards the exit.

I hesitate for a moment and after glancing over to confirm that Percy is distracted, I quickly pull myself up to my feet and follow after him.

When I manage to catch up with him, my foot lands on a stick with a loud snap and he whirls around to look at me.

“Christ, Montague…” He rolls his eyes and takes a breath. I think I may have startled him. “Stalking me again?”

“Oh I’m sorry, Richard.” I fold my arms and glare at him. “Are we forgetting that the last time we saw each other you essentially crawled in through my bedroom window to tell me you missed my ‘pretty little mouth’?”

He glares back at me, taking the lid off of the gin so that he can take a swig. “I was drunk.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Peele. But you’re drunk now, too.” 

He stares at me for a minute, then walks closer to me, handing me the bottle of gin. I take a swig as he watches, then shove it back into his chest. He snarls slightly, tossing it on the ground then grabs my arms, roughly backing me against a tree. I wince slightly as I feel the rough bark against my neck.

“You’re such a romantic…” I say, still glaring at him as he starts to undo my britches.

He doesn’t respond and I close my eyes, swallowing down the gin that seems to be wanting to make its way back up my throat.

_ This. This is what I deserve. _


	3. Somewhere I Want to Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monty finally gets a little bit of closure. And a little bit of Percy (sorry).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay less Richard in this chapter and more Percy (hooray!) Also slightly more mature this time around so tread carefully! But nothing explicit.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I enjoyed this fic a lot!!

**Cheshire, July 1726**

The evening before we are to leave for our Grand Tour of the Continent, I’ve been asked to pick out some of my favourite clothes for the trip for the servants to pack. I spent roughly three and a half minutes focusing on this task before Percy arrived and I switched my attention to convincing him to come out with me for one last night in Cheshire before he abandons me for… god, I can barely even stomach to think of it…  _ Holland. _

He made a show of arguing at first, as he is prone to do, just so that he can feel as if he is the morally superior one amongst our pair. Without much effort at all, I won him over and we managed to sneak out without my parents noticing and jump into a carriage.

Once we were in town, we sequestered ourselves in the corner of our favourite bar — it’s dimly lit, smokey and full of some very unsavoury characters (who I know fairly well by this point). The drinks are also mercifully cheap, which is fortunate as my parents quickly cut my personal allowances in half when Percy and I were _ finally _ booted out of the local billiards hall for stealing from behind the bar. (He did the stealing whilst I made a charming distraction — we make quite the two-man crime syndicate when necessary).

We’ve already polished off half of a bottle of whiskey between us and are getting loose-limbed and giggly when we start to discuss some of our plans for the tour. 

“Paris is a shithole,” I state. Because this is a fact.

“Paris is  _ not  _ a shithole!” Percy argues, laughing. “It’s the romance capital of the world! I would have thought that you, romancer extraordinaire, would be terribly excited for it!”

“I don’t need Paris to be romantic, Perce. Romance merely  _ happens _ in my presence.” I smile a dashing smile and point to my face. “Perhaps  _ this _ is the romance capital of the world…”

“You really are an embarrassment.” He smacks me on the back of the head, but I don’t miss the amusement on his face. “Am I going to have to pretend I do not know you for this entire trip?”

“No! I need you! My French is bloody awful.”

He laughs, “Your name is ‘Montague’! You should be fluent!”

“I know enough to get by! I…” I stop, thinking for a moment and sipping my whiskey, then gasp. “Oh! Yes! Here’s a good one, Perce. The only French we’ll ever need.”

I lean back on my chair, stretching my arm over the back of it and raising an eyebrow at him. He squints back at me, looking unamused. I put on my lowest and huskiest voice.

_ “Je rêve de tremper ma baguette dans ta soupe.” _

He stares at me for a second, gaping at me, then bursts into laughter. The kind of full-bodied, rich laughter that always turns me into an absolute puddle of emotion whenever I witness it. I manage to compose myself enough to grin at him.

“Christ, Monty! You are disgusting. Who taught you that?”

“Well, that would be telling!” I nudge him with my foot. “Think you can do any better?”

“Better than wanting to dip my baguette in your soup? Yes, I’m absolutely certain I can, actually.” He sits back and tops up our glasses with the whiskey bottle on our table. I look at him expectantly but he doesn’t continue.

“Well go on then!” I nudge him again, harder this time. “Seduce me, dammit!”

He laughs and glances around us, checking that no one is listening in. He clears his throat dramatically and leans into me slightly.

_ “J’aimerais être une goutte de sang pour mieux connaître ton cœur.” _

That.. was rather stirring. I’m suddenly grateful my bottom half is hidden under the table so that he can’t tell where the blood that has left my head has immediately relocated to. I do my best to shake it off slightly and tilt my head at him.

“Something about… a heart?”

“I would like to be a drop of blood, so as to better know your heart.” He smirks and sips his whiskey again. 

“Well, I’m suitably impressed.” I top up my own whiskey. “Any more to share? Or are you keeping some of these lines to yourself for use on the Parisian ladies?”

He gives me a look. “Unlike you, I am not going to the continent to shag my way across it. I may actually take in some of the culture.”

“How miserable for you. Just one more?” I widen my eyes, trying to look pleading. Although he knows me so well, he may be the only person on earth immune to it.

“Fine.” Apparently not totally immune. He sighs and leans back. “‘ _ Si le verbe aimer n’existait pas, je l’aurais inventé en te voyant.’ _ ...If the verb ‘to love’ didn’t exist, I would have invented it upon seeing you’.”

I swallow, only slightly. I pray he doesn’t notice. “Not bad…” I force out what I hope sounds like a casual laugh. “God, how do you know all of this anyway?”

He rolls his eyes at me slightly. “Some of us actually learned French at school. Rather than getting tied to headboards with neckties.” 

“Was that supposed to be a brag? Because I’m fairly sure I win in that scenario.” I down the rest of my drink as he gives me an unimpressed look. “I need to piss like a racehorse.”

He clutches at his chest with an exaggerated swoon. “I may speak beautiful French, but your English sonnets are incomparable.”

I climb over him to get out of our booth and he playfully shoves me the rest of the way out. I smirk at him before heading outside, ducking around the corner to find a quiet area of the alley where I can relieve myself.

I finish up and secure my britches, turning around and huffing as I walk straight into someone, stumbling slightly as the drink is already affecting my balance. I go to apologise before I realise who I’ve collided with.

“Montague!” Richard bloody Peele says, far too cheerily. “What a pleasant surprise!”

I blink at him. “Oh my. It’s been a while since you followed me into an alley, Richard. Have you missed me?”

“Perhaps. Slightly.” He’s slurring his words. I roll my eyes. “Do you have a moment?”

“That  _ really _ depends on what you want.”

He smirks at me, and I feel a wave of revulsion as he starts to slowly back me into the wall. He starts to kiss my neck and I take a deep breath, waiting for the part of me that wants this to kick in. It seems to be taking a long while.

I reach my limit when he starts to drag his tongue up to my ear. I shudder and push him away.

“Not in the mood. Sorry.” I go to walk away and he grabs my arm, scowling at me. “Let go of me, Richard.”

“Somewhere better to be,  _ Monty _ ?” 

“Actually, yes. I’m going to get steaming drunk with Percy, and then we’re off on our tour. So you’ll have to find someone else to blow you in alleys for a while. Now kindly…“ I finally manage to tug my arm away. “Fuck off.”

He glares at me, whatever he’s been drinking has clearly affected him, as his response is a little more delayed and far less scathing than his usual bile.

“Well… I hope you… fall into the canal in Venice.” I laugh and he frowns. “You’ll come crawling back to me once Newton ditches you for law school. Whatever will you do without the only person who doesn’t think you’re a dirty little pervert?”

I flinch slightly but I don’t respond, pushing past him and back into the bar. I look over and I feel a warmth spread over me when I see Percy sliding back into our booth with another bottle of spirits. He glances up, grinning when he sees that I’ve returned. I walk over to him and smile back.

“After this one, we’re going somewhere else.“ I slide back into my seat. “I want to play  _ piquet _ . Also, Richard Peele just turned up and if I spot him again I may vomit on his shoes.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You saw him outside?”

“Yes. He was charming as ever.” I frown at the look he’s giving me. “What?”

“No, nothing.” He seems to shrug something off, then smiles. “Anyway, we are not playing piquet after this, you idiot. We are going home. We have to travel for hours in the morning.”

“Oh pleeeeease, Perce. This is our last night here! Are you really going to cut it short, just to be  _ sensible _ ?” I bounce up and down excitedly. “I want to do terrible things with you. I want to leave chaos in our wake, then disappear to France before we have to suffer any consequences whatsoever.”

He starts laughing, as I knew he would. “I rue the day I ever met you, Henry Montague.”

  
  
  


*************************

  
  


**Epilogue; London, November 1728**

Before we moved into our flat in Moorfields, “home” to me meant tense silences, hiding myself away in dark corners, drinking myself to sleep most nights and then being disappointed when I still woke up the following day.

Now, here in London, in this cold and rat-infested building, for the first time in my life, “home” means safety. Means happiness. Means being with someone I love and trust unconditionally. “Home” is finally somewhere I want to be more than anywhere else in the world.

If you’ll allow me to be more specific, I do also have an absolute favourite place to be within the flat... on our bed. Even more specifically; underneath Percy as he pins my hands to our pillows and presses me into our poxy mattress, his mouth slowly and painstakingly mapping out a path from my jaw to my collarbone.

I often get home from work at unholy hours, usually around three or four in the morning. With his illness, plentiful sleep is essential for Percy and therefore I usually make what I deem to be an impressive effort not to wake him with my arrival. Sometimes I don’t bother dressing for bed, climbing in next to him still wearing my coat as to not make any unnecessary noise.

Sometimes this works perfectly, other times my clumsiness (which was always quite impressive, and has somehow been made more so by my deafness) defeats me and I trip, knock over an empty lantern, or otherwise make a calamity of myself.

I always feel terrible for waking Percy, right up until the second he opens his gorgeous brown eyes and gives one of his dramatic, showy stretches, his long arms seeming to stretch across the entire flat.

After that, more often than not, he gives me a sleepy, heavenly smile and beckons me over, and although I’ve only been gone a few hours, we reunite as if we’ve not touched each other in months.

(I’ve been surprised but delighted to learn, since our first time in Santorini and the months afterwards of discovering each others’ bodies, our boundaries, likes and dislikes… that Percy’s libido doesn’t just rival my own, it leaves it quite in the dust. As evidenced tonight when he fairly swiftly tipped me over the edge and then kept right on going.)

“Christ, Perce…” I gasp as he reaches my shoulder and bites down gently. “You’re insatiable. I’ve already...”

“Want me to stop?”, he interrupts but shows no sign of slowing, his voice is muffled against my skin. “Just say the word, darling…”

“No! God no. Don’t you dare. I’m just…” I sigh as he moves his mouth onto my chest, forgetting my train of thought as he lets go of my hands and I reach down to tangle my fingers in his hair. It never ceases to amaze me how he can get me from utterly shagged out to rearing to go again within less than five minutes.

I pull his face up to mine and he gives me a grin that’s bordering on wicked before pressing his lips hard against mine. Kissing Percy is such a blissfully familiar act now, but it still never fails to send a shiver up my spine. He trails kisses from my mouth to my cheek and I can’t help but frown slightly when he starts tracing shapes across my face towards where my right ear was once located.

“Perce… you don’t need to do that.”

“Do what?” He murmurs in response but doesn’t stop.

“That… “ I sigh, distractedly wrapping one of his curls around my fingers. “Kissing my scars. Like they’re something to be worshipped.” He stops and looks at me, frowning. “You don’t have to  _ pretend _ they’re attractive… that’s all.”

“ _ Pretend _ they’re…?” He stares at me, looking confused and a little offended. “Monty, when do I ever pretend anything with you?”

I scoff. “You pretended not to be in love with me for a good five years…”

“Well yes, but that was self-preservation more than anything.” I tch slightly and he brings a hand up to my forehead, pushing away a strand of hair that’s fallen into my eyes. “But we’re honest with each other now, remember? We swore to it.”

“We did... “ I smirk at him. “So what are you saying exactly, darling? That my terrible disfigurement turns you on?”

“No! I mean… it doesn’t…  _ not  _ turn me on, it’s… I mean all of you turns me on, Monty. Even the... “ He motions to my face, flustered, then notices I’m grinning at him. “Oh, you are such a prick.”

I laugh and pull his face back down, pressing our foreheads together. “I love watching you suffer.”

“You’re a menace.” He nudges my nose with his. “If it really bothers you, I’ll stop. I just like kissing you. _ Everywhere _ . And your scars really are beautiful, you know.” He strokes the side of my face and his eyes trace every angry line. “They remind me of our adventures. Of how brave you are. My beautiful boy, facing off with a Duke…”

“And getting his ear blown off. Terribly brave.” Despite my dismissal, I can feel tears starting to prickle my eyes, so I pull him down for another long, lingering kiss. “Sorry, darling. Sometimes I just get a little... “

“I know.” He kisses me again and I wrap my legs around his hips, arching into him slightly so that he lets go a soft moan into my mouth. “Jesus, Monty… I can’t believe you thought I’d give you _ pity kisses _ …”

“Well, years of pity shags can have a certain effect on one’s self-confidence, darling.”

He rolls his eyes. “Are you really going to start talking about all of your former lovers while I’m on top of you? And they didn’t  _ pity _ you…”

“Some of them did. But I pitied myself, so I could hardly blame them.” He sighs and gently brushes my bottom lip with his thumb. I reach out to grab his hand, gently kiss his knuckles and smile. “If Richard Peele could see me now...”

“Uugghhh!” He screws up his face. “That name? In this scenario? No. Absolutely not. Are you  _ trying _ to make me soft?”

I start giggling, unable to help myself. “So you’re telling me you’ve never wanted to bellow “WE HATE RICHARD PEELE” in the throes of passion?”

He tries to pull himself away from me in protest and I laugh harder, tightening my legs around him and throwing an arm around his neck, trapping him in.

“You’re not going anywhere! We still have to deal with…” I grin and reach my other arm down between us, making him gasp. “This.”

“You can’t just…ah... distract me with…” He groans and stops me, grabbing my hand and pulling it up to pin it to the pillow once again. “Promise me you’ll tell me. If you feel like that again.”

I frown. “If I feel like what, darling?”

“If you ever feel ugly. Or… like you don’t deserve this.” 

I swallow, staring up at him. Of course I don’t deserve this. As a matter of fact, I don’t think anyone on this earth deserves someone as wonderful as my Percy. But I love him with every part of my being, and he’s proven on multiple occasions that he loves me equally as deeply. 

So, despite every terrible thought I’ve her had about myself, every wave of shame after being groped and violated by people who don’t give a shit about me, every swig of gin to try and numb the self-hatred in my veins… I’ve decided to make Percy proud of me. I will learn to love myself as much as I love him. 

(Well… at least half as much.)

“I promise, Perce. I do.” I kiss his nose gently, then kiss his lips. “Now stop talking and screw me, would you?”

He laughs. “I love you. You beast.”  
  
I intend to say it back but he kisses me before I can. I grin against his mouth, letting contentment wash over me and my mind empty of any thoughts that aren’t  _ Percy, Percy, Percy _ ...


End file.
